


Connexions

by keire_ke



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mr Lehnsherr of Thornfield first began seeking a tutor suited to educate his young daughter, he could hardly have expected the young gentleman who turned up at his door, nor the connection they would forge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kageillusionz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageillusionz/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Unbinded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/754737) by [kageillusionz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageillusionz/pseuds/kageillusionz). 



The stately mansion of Thornfield lay amidst the sprawling fields of the heather county, surrounded on all sides by endless expanses of various shades of purple, when the season permitted. Most often it did not, and the Lehnsherrs, who had inhabited the halls for generations, had to be content with greys.

This was the case on one long afternoon in late August. Erik Lehnsherr, the gifted scion of a thus far universally human family, sat in the library, in front of the crackling fire, watching his daughter, Anya, brave her way through the second page of her very first adult book. Truth be told the book was a touch too adult for a girl of seven, but Erik held a firm belief that a person he spent the most time with ought to be educated beyond the narrow confines of what passed for an education in polite society, and Anya was regrettably destined for a lifetime of if not acute misery than certainly mild social isolation. Magda’s unfortunate death had buried the secret of Anya’s parentage, which would no doubt cast her outside all social circles, instead of only the most discerning ones. To begin with, Magda had resisted marriage, citing reasons both couched in sense and her own distaste for the institution, thus depriving Anya of a formal standing, as an illegitimate, if claimed, child. In time Erik came to be grateful for Magda's resistance: should the truth of Anya's parentage become widely known, the outrage would be such that not even a wagon of gold could obscure it, because the truth of the matter, known to three people still living, was that Magda Maximoff was not gifted. Their saving grace was that the Roma were known for hiding their gifts, and so, though it was seldom mentioned she was the girl’s mother, as it implied the young master of Thornfield had a dalliance with a Roma girl, it was common knowledge, as was the fact Erik was gifted. It took no more than a few coins to see the story of Magda’s gifts spiralling through the neighbourhood, saving Anya from the worst possible fate; a child of a misalliance between a gifted and a human. Thank the heavens, Erik said to himself, as he watched her auburn head bent low over the pages, that they were not social creatures, and that his wealth and name was so revered in the neighbourhood that woe to the house which shunned his Anya. Were he any less rich, surely some inquisitive soul would bother digging, to ascertain the worthiness of the potential match. Instead he could remain content her future was as secure as he could make it.

Erik sighed then, which was not a typical reaction to such musings, and stretched his legs towards the fire, because, despite the time of year, the weather had chosen to establish itself as autumn, half-listening to the clumsy syllables spilling from Anya’s mouth and half to the sudden onslaught of rain, when a knock on the door announced an intruder.

"Forgive me, sir," his butler, Azazel, said, materialising suddenly in the opposite corner of the room. "There is a young gentleman at the door. He says you are seeking a tutor for the young lady."

"In this weather I seek nothing but hot tea," Erik said, getting to his feet nonetheless. "Stay here, I’ll be back soon," he told Anya, who obediently bowed her head.

Azazel followed him through the door – used quite conventionally this time – and down the stairs, where, in the middle of a growing puddle, there was a young man – a boy even – who shivered with the cold. He looked up at the newcomers with a calm, unflinching eye, inclining his head at first, but then dipping into a bow.

"Mr Lehnsherr," he said. "Thank you for seeing me. I apologise for the state of my attire, I had hoped to arrive before the rain."

"Good heavens," Erik half-whispered, in equal parts enchanted by the vivid blue of his eyes, all the more striking in the middle of his grey lands, and puzzled by the curious mix of nigh-royal graciousness in bearing and humble apologies. Then, being a graceful host, he remembered the state of his visitor’s brightly coloured clothes. "You must be cold. Did you not come in a carriage?"

"No. Your footman was kind enough to see to my horse. I’m afraid my luggage remains at the inn."

"Come, we shall find a change of clothes for you and then you will join me for a cup of something hot in the library. Azazel, if you will find something suitable for Mr…"

"Charles Xavier, Mr Lehnsherr."

"Mr Xavier." Erik nodded at Azazel and watched the two ascend the stairs. He returned to the library and found himself pinned by Anya’s curious gaze. "It seems there is an applicant," he told her. "You may have your tutor sooner than expected."

"So soon?" She sat up on her haunches. "But I haven’t even learned to read well yet."

"Hence the tutor, darling." Erik ruffled her hair and piled the papers he had scattered on his desk on one corner, making space for the tray of hot chocolate which would arrive promptly. It did, in fact, arrive sooner than Mr Xavier, who entered the room just as Erik was pouring the thick beverage into cups.

"Thank you, Mr Lehnsherr, for your hospitality," he said.

"Hardly an imposition. Please sit, have some chocolate. Then, perhaps, a whiskey."

"You are most kind," Mr Xavier said with a smile.

"This is my daughter, Anya," Erik said, and Anya rose from the floor and curtsied. "Anya, this is Mr Xavier." They both watched Mr Xavier’s face for the indication of discomfort when the ugly, raised tissue on the side of her face became visible, a memory of fire, but there were none. A touch of surprise maybe, soon melted in a smile, as he rose from his seat to kiss her hand. 

"Miss Lehnsherr."

"My name is Maximoff, Mr Xavier," she said shyly. "Anya Maximoff. After my mother."

"Miss Maximoff then. It is a pleasure."

"Likewise." Anya beamed and, at Erik’s nod, collected her book and retreated to the settee further back, where the conversation would neither interrupt nor be interrupted by her reading.

"How old are you, Mr Xavier?" Erik asked, quite steadfastly ignoring the fact the question rose from the same place which was studying his unlined face closely, and that part was less inclined to worry about his academic credentials.

"I’m a few months short of my twentieth birthday. I’m sorry to say I can only supply a limited amount of references, and those are primarily from my schoolmasters."

"I take it you haven’t tutored before?"

"I’m afraid not."

That wasn’t a great failing in itself. Mr Xavier had lively eyes – Erik made a note of it and ceased looking altogether – a keen gaze and a soft smile. Altogether his bearing suggested a thoughtful young man, which Erik felt important. More interestingly, his jacket, which must by now be drying in the kitchen, was a rich blue, matching a turquoise vest, which in itself, while not terribly flashy, indicated the gentleman was human, as it had become a fashion for those not blessed with gifts to outfit themselves in bright, vivid colours, hoping to match the brilliance often awarded to the gifted by nature, who favoured more subdued colours themselves. Erik found the fashion frustrating and often wore red instead of browns and bronzes, which lead to assumptions he was equally quick to dispel, having been born with an easily demonstrable gift, if not one that was immediately obvious.

"You are a gentleman," he said, at long last coming across a less incendiary subject. "Surely you understand that I must think twice before entrusting my young daughter to you."

"I have been informed you seek for her a thorough education," Mr Xavier said primly. "I, of course, will gladly submit to any measure of propriety you think is required – I will not be offended at all if you insist on a chaperone – but I daresay you will be hard-pressed to find a tutor who’d rival my schooling."

"I see humility is not a fault of yours." Erik picked up his cup to sip at the thick chocolate.

"You ask what makes me qualified to teach your child, any response short of factual would be misleading." Mr Xavier looked at where Anya was sitting with a small smile. "I was informed you would care more about a broad range of subjects than what is deemed appropriate for a young lady to study, hence my application: I was sent to a boarding school in London when I was eight, and encouraged personally by the dean of the university, who is my godfather. I have been read to since I was very young and read to myself once old enough. I speak French and Italian; I read Latin and Greek. I have at least a passing familiarity with most academic subjects, more than passing in the case of natural sciences. Here are the letters given to me by my schoolmaster and, if you feel a relative might have an unbiased opinion, also from the dean."

Erik accepted the two envelops handed to him and set them aside. "Regardless of your schooling, I would hate to expend myself only to see Anya with an education ill-befitting her sex. Do you perhaps draw? Shoot a pistol? Play the pianoforte? Because I take it for granted that you dance well."

"I lack talent for drawing, but I am adept enough to offer instruction at music, if very average myself, and naturally, I dance. I’ve been told I have an eye for colour, so if Miss Maximoff enjoys painting, I could offer at least rudimentary assistance. I can shoot a pistol, although I'm better trained in the use of a bow." 

"Anya finds herself attracted to crossbows, curiously enough."

Mr Xavier hesitated. "I should perhaps mention I can embroider. Adequately, I think."

"That is a curious talent for a young gentleman to have," Erik said mildly. Currently the favoured skills were woodwork and charcoal sketches; a man capable of producing a convincing likeness of the object of his affection and frame it handsomely with his own two hands would rarely lack attention.

"I am well aware of it. I have concluded that a young gentleman incapable of said is at the mercy of his servants, and those are not always in supply, whilst the importance of presentability is in supply always." Mr Xavier reached into the pocket of his borrowed jacket and produced a damp handkerchief, which he professed to Erik, who had to smile at the sight. The monogram in the corner was indeed not of the highest quality, certainly couldn't be measured up to the work produced by the young monks of the monastery at the island, but the stitches were even and the shape quite presentable, as was the hemming. The handkerchief itself was made of turquoise silk, a common colour choice for human gentlemen.

"I am impressed, Mr Xavier," he said, returning the kerchief. "It’s getting late and the weather shows no signs of relenting; I’ll have Azazel prepare a room for you, and we shall return to business in the morning, if convenient."

"Thank you." Mr Xavier let out a long breath, and then offered a smile. "I was wondering if I may borrow a book, if I’m to stay the night."

"Feel free – my library is open to anyone staying in the house."

Mr Xavier took to the shelves with the zeal of one starved for literacy, finally selecting a thin volume from among the most worn tomes. Erik left him to his afternoon reading and spent the time remaining till supper playing chess with Anya, who expressed her admiration of the applying tutor. 

"He appears nice, father," she said, nudging a rook three spaces. "His smile is kind."

Erik nodded, even though he found himself convinced already. The further test of bearing, such as could be administered during a meal in the privacy of one’s own abode, Mr Xavier passed, though not without displaying the curious tendency towards behaviour unfitting his station. He hid it well, as soon as he caught himself in the act, but now and then his gaze would slide right past the servants as though not seeing them at all, a tendency Erik observed in very few men of his acquaintance. It spoke of superior birth and an upbringing among the most discerning society, thus, presumably, money. Why would a wealthy heir – and Erik had no doubt Mr Xavier possessed, at some point in his life, wealth – seek employment as a tutor of a girl rather outside his social circle?

The mystery would need to remain untouched, for now, he concluded later that evening, having studied the letters Mr Xavier supplied. Both endorsed the young gentleman heartily, as an exemplar scholar and a gifted student, with impeccable manners and a highly unorthodox passion for learning. He seemed the ideal candidate for Erik's purposes, yet one thing troubled him. He was not gifted. Erik found this curiously regrettable, but as the night wore on he was glad for it. Anya had shown no signs of manifesting, even when threatened by a fiery death – Erik shuddered at the memory – and Erik's staff was primarily gifted, so a human tutor could prove beneficial. Furthermore, it would save Erik from regrettable attachment, if he knew for certain such a barrier existed between them. Only a few years had passed since Magda, but Erik felt them as though they were decades; he was wiser now – having once endangered his entire fortune and respectability for the sake of ill-advised passion, however motivated by personal tragedy, had been enough.

That very same reason, however, insisted firmly that Mr Xavier would best be dismissed in the morning, on the grounds that temptation is best resisted when removed, which Erik found harder to contest, yet wouldn't concede. How fortunate indeed, Erik thought instead, quite pleased with himself, blowing out the candle and slipping between the sheets, that such an accomplished person would seek out a position in Erik’s household. How fortunate indeed.

Naturally, the next morning found Mr Xavier employed and Azazel dispatched to the inn, for the luggage. Erik saw him briefly when he appeared by the door, before dematerialising again, to deliver it up the stairs, where Mr Xavier was arranging his new lodgings to his liking, and found it small, but serviceable. However when he made his way to the first floor, to check whether everything was indeed as it should be, he discovered a neat row of expensive books lining the shelves by the far wall, and by the length of the row these books must have taken the majority of space in the coffer. Where were the clothes, he found himself thinking, but then he dismissed the matter, distracted by the sight of Mr Xavier in a loose-fitting shirt, undone at the collar, bending over the mostly-emptied luggage.

* * *

It was only a few weeks later that the matter raised its head once more, at which point Erik, being a man of action, took immediate steps to rectify it. He was enjoying his afternoon tea in the library, when Mr Xavier appeared in a state of agitation and without preamble made his displeasure known.

"Mr Lehnsherr, there is a man in my room, armed with a measuring tape and a pair of scissors."

"In these parts we refer to such men as tailors, Mr Xavier. I may not be familiar with the London term; we are a fair distance from the city."

Mr Xavier trembled, though the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement. "I did not arrange for a tailor, Mr Lehnsherr."

"No, I did."

"May I inquire as to the reason?"

"I couldn’t help but notice you had packed an enviable selection of books, yet neglected to expand your wardrobe, pieces of which, I’m sorry to say, are too small in some place and threadbare in others." This was an exaggeration, to be sure, because while some items Erik observed to be snug, the quality and cut of the materials indicated tremendous wealth, which had not so much faded, as simply stopped paying attention. Still, the books were brand new. Erik appreciated a person who prized their mind over their looks, but Mr Xavier's current position required respectability on all accounts.

Mr Xavier, evidently not as quick to arrive at the same conclusion, coloured. "The state of my wardrobe is no concern of yours."

"Quite the contrary, Mr Xavier. I am entrusting you with my child, and, as I see no reason to keep you both sequestered in the mansion, you will be frequently seen together. We’ve had a dearth of visitors up until now, but balls are forthcoming, and it is my wish to have you reflect the standing of Thornfield. You will therefore accept the attentions of Mr Quested and the resulting garments as a gift from your grateful employer." All facetiousness aside, Erik felt that a new, quality wardrobe was a fair bonus. Anya was reading fluently now, after only a few weeks of tutorage; her French accent had improved immeasurably (Erik’s tended towards German, and thus his instruction was best left forgotten) and Mr Xavier’s shocking insistence on outdoor exercises gave her cheeks a healthy blush. Most importantly she was happy, as only a reasonable child whose every need is met can be happy, and Erik was not blind to the fact that his own sporadic attention could account only for a fraction of that happiness.

"I can’t allow this, Mr Lehnsherr," Mr Xavier said firmly.

"If a gift is displeasing to you, I could arrange to have the cost deducted from your wages," Erik said over his cup, and watched Mr Xavier blink his stupendous eyes at him, as though in surprise.

"My wages…? Oh, yes, naturally." The line of his spine relaxed considerably. "Of course. Please do so."

Erik set his cup aside and fixed Mr Xavier with a pointed look. "It occurs to me, in that case, that I have been remiss in my duties, grievously so."

"How so?"

"Mr Xavier, surely you must be concerned that we never discussed your wages."

Again Mr Xavier bore the look of a cornered rabbit and just as quickly had it melt into a mask of pleasantness. "I’m sure I am equally at fault, for not insisting," he said, and made no move to indicate his further interest in the subject. He readily agreed to Erik’s first offer (which was in itself reasonably generous) and made no move to discuss it, when in truth his performance could easily warrant a higher sum.

Erik refrained from voicing his, rather complex, emotions. A young aristocrat fallen from grace was common enough; one seeking employment rather than appealing to his relatives was rare. One who sought employment and cared naught for the wages he received was a curiosity worth investigating. And, because Erik was a man with considerable resources at his disposal, he set to unravelling the mystery right away. He began by scouring the records of the peerage of the land, for errant sons about Charles’ age, and found many. The name Xavier turned out to be of little help – Mr Xavier was not a scion of the high-born. Who was this creature, Erik raged in the privacy of his mind, even as he watched the self-same creature guide Anya through the complexities of mathematics. Who was he, and how had he come to be, and more importantly, why was he haunting Thornfield's master?

* * *

Mr Xavier was with them for some months when Erik first began to entertain the possibility of a ball. Anya was too young to attend, but the season was unfolding and the neighbours were bored. The invitations were sent and soon Thornfield became the social hub. Carriages began arriving from all around the county, filling the heather fields with colours and noise, and Erik greeted the guests from the heights of his sitting room window, trusting his staff and friends, who naturally arrived earliest, to kindle the entertainment. He threw balls when he felt his position demanded it, and no more often, and even then he did so reluctantly, as social gatherings wearied him tremendously.

"You seem unwelcoming," said a kind whisper on the side, the speaker hidden by the door, a whisper Erik immediately identified as having originated with Mr Xavier. 

"You are mistaken; this is my usual countenance."

"Indeed, it is not. To me you are always accommodating."

"I have good reason," Erik said, throwing a look and finding himself transfixed by the blue eyes gazing at him from the shadows. "Do you have advice, Mr Xavier, since you judged me wanting as a host?"

"Did I? I beg your forgiveness. Still, if I may be allowed… Let your shoulders drop, and smile. This is but an evening, and then you will be at peace again."

Erik allowed himself a smile which had once sent a maid rushing to the housekeeper in tears, but Mr Xavier merely returned it, folding his hands behind his back. "Will you honour me with a dance this evening?" he asked, once the novelty of standing in the shadows and smiling at one another passed. "Please forgive the impertinence, but I enjoy dancing very much, and I know very few people in the neighbourhood. I would be loath to cause your guests distress by appearing a stranger and engaging their attention."

"Surely your arrival at the inn would have been noted," Erik replied, reeling. "I know the innkeeper’s wife and she lets no arrival get unmentioned in her daily chattering with her brother, the butler of Mr Summers, who is a bigger gossip than she. A handsome youth like you, travelling with no spouse and no ring, must have caused quite the stir. For that reason alone you are no longer a stranger to these parts."

Mr Xavier peered at him through his lashes. "Do you find me handsome, Mr Lehnsherr?"

"Do you find me blind, Mr Xavier?"

Mr Xavier laughed. "Touché, sir. Allow me to return the compliment, Mr Lehnsherr, and say you may just be the most presentable gentleman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."

Erik smiled, this time with no intention to frighten. "I shall gladly dance with you, if you won’t be insulted by waiting for the third set."

"Hardly! I am amazed I would rank so high, being a humble tutor."

"Now, Mr Xavier, I will not see you degrade yourself thusly. Humble! Show me a man or woman who’d insult you so grievously and I will see them by appointment without delay."

Mr Xavier laughed at that, not as a gentleman should, but straight from the belly, throwing his head back and letting his mirth out in a loud guffaw, unbefitting polite company. "Thank you, Mr Lehnsherr," he said once his control returned. "I will see Anya to bed and join you downstairs promptly."

"Do that," Erik told him. "You have yet to meet the people I have to dance with before the evening becomes tolerable."

He watched the man smile at him one more time and disappear down the corridor, towards the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

The ball, as predicted, was intolerable. Erik danced the first set with Lady Moira MacTaggart, whom he both admired and detested in equal measure, and who harboured the same feelings towards him. This made their acquaintance a mercurial affair, as likely to end up with a joint course of action as it was in a violent row. "I hear you have found a tutor for Anya," she said, passing behind his back as the music demanded. "I hear he is human and a male, and the county decries it a scandal."

"I hear the cries of the county," he responded during the next pass, "and find them meaningless. It’s their own fault their gifted daughters lack education and are thus unemployable."

"I should like to meet the young gentleman."

"And you have yet to hear the best part." Erik bowed and a gloved hand slipped into his. A complicated bout of side-stepping later, he said, "He asked me to dance with him before the ball started."

Moira very nearly stumbled. No one but Erik noticed, but it was quite enough. "A human tutor?" came her scandalised whisper, as though she wasn’t human herself, "dared to ask you for a dance?"

"Curious, is it not?"

"I am appalled that you would tolerate such insolence in your house," Moira said haughtily. Indeed, on the surface the situation was ludicrous. A pair of the same sex shocked only the most puritan of souls these days, in dance or church, but to have a human tutor ask their gifted employer for a dance, when such effrontery would just barely be permissible if they were both of the same stock and already gossiped about! Yet there was more to Moira's outrage, and as much as it infuriated Erik, to be taxed with such judgement, Moira was one of the only people privy to the truth about Magda, and thus allowed to make such judgements.

A flash of inspiration struck him, sharp and sudden and belated. Lady Moira was unparalleled in her social awareness, and her ability to verify rumours was legendary. It was she who located Magda after her escape, and she who brought Anya back, a helpless babe crying in her arms. Surely, if anyone could help unravel the mystery behind the young man with enough discretion to keep Erik's reputation pristine, it was her.

"Normally I wouldn’t allow it," he said, "except in this case I know for sure he did not think himself impertinent, and when you meet him you will know his manners are too immaculate for it to be a result of insufficient education or hubris. He forgets himself often and when he does he speaks to me as if I were at least his equal, and does so with grace, if you can believe such a thing."

"And yet he sought employment in one of the most isolated properties in the county." Moira went through her figures with the ease of practice, flowing through them like a living flame, in her orange gown. "Don’t think I don’t realise what you intend, Lehnsherr. Perhaps he is merely a well-bred child of a family down on its luck."

"This well-bred and with no family to pay his way? His godfather is the dean of a university, a man I know to be exceedingly wealthy. If he has no other relatives to turn to, this should be enough."

"Maybe they are not on speaking terms."

"And yet he presented a very warm reference letter, glowing with praise, and the praise is well-deserved. No, I will wager anything he is not impoverished, and if he seems so, it is because of his own choice. His expectations are meagre; he arrived with a coffer full of expensive books, and worn clothing. He hardly even asked for wages, and took the first offer without question. I've observed he is extravagant about his purchases, in that he buys quality items, regardless of their price, but he buys them to be useful, not displayed. He has money, MacTaggart, and spends it respectfully as his own."

"You know how to make love to a woman, Lehnsherr," Moira said over her shoulder as she passed in front of him, right to left. "Alright, I shall look into your mysterious employee."

"Would you like to meet him?" Erik asked, catching sight of the gentleman in question, sequestered in the far end of the ballroom, where he was safely separated from enquiring ladies and gentlemen of indeterminate parentage. He seemed to be exchanging unhurried remarks with an elderly gentleman, who had just drifted away, towards the refreshments, leaving Mr Xavier exposed to attention.

"How could I possibly refuse, after such recommendation?" She curtsied and offered Erik her arm. Together they crossed the dance floor, amidst retiring dancers, and made their way towards Mr Xavier.

"Lady MacTaggart, this is the newest addition to my household," Erik said, when they came close enough to speak freely, "Mr Charles Xavier. Mr Xavier, may I present Lady Moira MacTaggart."

True to advertisement, Mr Xavier straightened imperceptibly, affected a pleasant smile and a courteous incline of the head, rather than the more appropriate full bow. He caught himself instantly and bent at the waist, grasping Moira’s hand and pressing a soft kiss to her satin-covered knuckles. "It’s an honour to meet you, Lady MacTaggart."

"Likewise," Moira said, throwing Erik a sharp look. She wouldn’t have missed the moment of hesitation, nor the very calculated, very _proper_ greeting, which matched the carefully brought up tutor, who earned his living by teaching children of the wealthy. "I hear good things about you, young man. Although the neighbours decry Mr Lehnsherr as a deviant for subjecting his ward to a male tutor, they also unanimously agree that Anya is improving under your tutelage."

"I’m flattered. I do my best."

"So I hear," Moira said. "Lehnsherr, I happen to know there are at least four people desperate for you to pay them attention, and you have Mr Xavier at your call every day. Go play the dutiful host."

"As you say," Erik said, bowed and departed to catch the next dance. He picked a quiet partner this time, a shy young gifted maiden, the daughter of his closest neighbours, whose ballroom experience could be counted on the fingers of one hand, so that he could watch Moira engage Mr Xavier. The girl, in addition to being a competent dancer and not an engaging conversationalist, was short; Erik could easily watch the room over her curled green hair, which helped him very little. Moira betrayed little through her flirtatious fanning, and the conversation itself seemed fairly innocuous. He longed to hear what was being said; Moira held herself in such an efficient stance, body and mind, Erik was once told even mind-readers found her manner misleading. It was no wonder he could barely judge her state of mind across the ballroom, despite having known her for many years.

The dance ended, at least, and Erik escaped only to be intercepted by yet another dancing partner, one he couldn’t refuse without causing an unflattering rumour, then another, and, before he knew it, it was already ten o’clock and he had danced the past hours almost without respite. He sought solace on a terrace which would overlook the ballroom, which opened onto the orchard, had it not been located on the opposite side of the mansion, where the purple sea of heather touched the stone walls. Erik sunk to the chair there with a sigh. In truth he cared little for social gatherings not so much because his pride wouldn’t permit him to interact with people of lower standing and higher standing alike (a proud man would not be seen as consorting with his lessers, nor would he like to be humbled by his betters), but because he couldn’t stand to be around crowds for an extended period of time.

He sat there, in silence, for close to an hour, listening to the music wafting from downstairs, hoping the ball would be drawing to a close without the guests noticing his absence. He returned to his duties past midnight, in time to politely refuse a dance with a gentleman swaying on his feet and see most of his guest out. He didn’t see Mr Xavier again that night, which hurt, as he distinctly recalled having promised him a dance. He consoled himself with the knowledge that a gentleman with Mr Xavier’s features would have no trouble with finding for himself a dancing partner, and therefore wasn't likely to suffer for the lack of attention.

When the last of the persistent guests had been dealt with, Erik trudged wearily to the library, where Azazel materialised moments later with a tray of tea, intending to spend an hour reading to compose himself, lest he waste the night in pointless unrest. Alas, the unrest was meant for him that night: there was a light in the library and in that light there was Moira, bent over Erik’s writing desk, penning a glorious missive with his very favourite pen.

"I trust this is not an interruption," he said, directing Azazel to leave the tray and fetch another cup, which he did promptly.

"It is. Give me another few minutes, I need a word," she answered, never looking up from her writing.

Erik complied. At last she straightened and fixed him with a calculating eye. "I’m convinced Mr Xavier is hiding here," she said. "I do not know what his purpose is, but this I know: he did not need to seek employment, he did not leave his home on a whim. He is haunted, and terrified by whatever it is he is haunted by."

If the words had come from a different mouth Erik would have laughed, but, because it was Moira's, he stayed sober and indeed grew fearful. "Is he a deserter?"

"I dare not speculate. I find him pleasing, and would hate to ruin his reputation by gossiping about his circumstance."

"I trust you will not be equally hesitant when sharing the facts, will you?"

"It’s like you know me," Moira said with a curl of her lips, nodding at the still empty cup. "Pour the tea, if you will."

* * *

The time in the country had the tendency to move slowly, outside the time which moved the empires, but now and then news would penetrate. Erik received news on a cold December afternoon, when it seemed like the world beyond the heather, currently blanketed by snow, was no more real than the Isle of Avalon. He was seated in his customary spot in the library, it being, somehow, the cosiest of the rooms in the house, half-listening to Mr Xavier, as he explained to Anya the intricacies of the third declinations of the Latin language.

"A letter for you, sir," Azazel said, proffering a tray on which there was an envelope. Erik recognised Moira’s handwriting instantly and tore through the envelope to discover less than a page, written in no hurry. Hardly momentous news, then, he thought sourly.

_Lehnsherr,_ Moira wrote, _You must forgive me the utter irrelevance of this note, but I am writing solely to escape the attentions of a most unpleasant individual imaginable. Thankfully our hosts had paper and ink at hand, else I would have been quite discomfited, and in a while maybe I will find a moment of peace trying to locate a servant who would post it. I am currently in London, where gossip is cheap and scandal cheaper, which is how I can report this so early. Why, just this week two young heirs have been declared compromised; you can bet I will dance with at least one of them at a ball next Sunday. I go about listening, mostly, which is hardly exciting, but holds much promise indeed._

_Oh thank heavens, the brute had moved on. I tell you Lehnsherr, remain in the country, where you are safe. The city attracts the most objectionable people._

_So as not to waste the paper completely, I can tell you that I have an appointment on the morrow with a man who might shed some light on our mutual acquaintance. Hopefully the mystery will be solved before long._

_Your friend,  
Moira MacTaggart_

Erik smiled to himself and chanced a look at his daughter and Mr Xavier, both of whom were wearing ridiculous grins as they chanted a line of Latin nouns in their proper declinations, too low for Erik to follow. "Very well," Mr Xavier said. "But I believe we are done for the afternoon. Dinner will be served momentarily, and after that I think we should try our hands at music."

"Happily, Mr Xavier," Anya said, as she slid off the high chair and curtsied. She ran out the door with a skip in her step, leaving Erik and Mr Xavier scandalously alone.

"It seems there is news from London," Erik said, as Mr Xavier tidied the books. "Lady MacTaggart writes that her new acquaintances are most objectionable, and she misses the country dearly."

"I am not surprised," Mr Xavier said lightly.

"Do you? Ah, I forget you are a far worldlier man than I, who have been brought up in the narrow confines of Thornfield’s neighbourhood." Erik settled in his chair and called forth for the metal wire, wrapped around the teapot, to refill his cup.

He was not prepared to see Mr Xavier startle. "Forgive me, sir," he said, when Erik’s incredulous gaze came to his attention, "I’m not used—that is, I was not aware you were gifted."

"That is hardly a secret," Erik said. He set the kettle down. He was not quite so isolated not to know that while the gifted were widely accepted, there were still people who harboured the childish fear and prejudice which came from ignorance. Erik had the misfortune to meet several such individuals, who, despite accepting Azazel’s talents as convenient in a servant, would snub Erik himself, despite his social position being at the very least equal to theirs. 

"You don’t seem to follow the same fashions trends, at least. Most of the gifted fancy dimmer colours." Mr Xavier wouldn’t meet his eyes and Erik found himself angry. "A mistake is only natural."

"I expect there would be no problems," he said, only narrowly managing to contain the anger. "I would be very disappointed if someone I trusted to educate my child proved to be unworthy of the post."

"No, you are mistaken, sir – I’m not… bothered, not in the slightest."

"Bothered?" Erik set the cup aside and stood. "You are not bothered? Allow me to say, then, Mr Xavier, how deeply disappointed I am. I have tolerated your queer manners – yes, don’t fancy yourself too secretive, it is perfectly transparent you are not seeking employment as means of anything but concealment – because Anya likes you well enough, but I will not see myself a bother in my own house."

"Mr Lehnsherr, please—"

"I should sack you right now," Erik ground out. "And I swear to you, if Anya shows the slightest prejudice, it will not be the last time you’ve heard of me."

_Please, Mr Lehnsherr,_ Erik found his mind suffused in honey-coloured light, which drowned out the bitter anger at once. _Calm your mind._

Mr Xavier was looking at him, with his soft mouth parted lightly and his brow furrowed in contrition. "I’m deeply sorry," he said at long last, out loud. "I meant no offence. Please forgive the lie; I knew you were gifted, naturally, the moment I laid eyes on you. Such things are obvious to my own gift like the tone of voice is to the ears, or the colour of your cravat is obvious to the eyes."

"Why the theatre, then?" Despite the golden glow, which was still present in Erik’s mind, which could only have come from Mr Xavier himself, he found himself placated only as far as the obvious was concerned. "Everyone assumed you are human. You can’t tell me you picked your clothes without a care."

"I’m sure you remember you picked those colours for me." Mr Xavier smiled as he tugged the cuff of his jacket, which was blue and yellow, and bright enough to turn heads even when worn by the plainest of gentlemen, and Mr Xavier was far from plain. "I didn’t dare complain."

"I seem to recall your own jacket was no less vivid, and I’m sure that if you’d cared enough, you’d have dared." Erik regarded the man with perhaps less fondness than he’d become accustomed to, but a thoroughly novel jolt of recognition. "I do not appreciate being lied to."

"It is necessary. Please, Mr Lehnsherr, I beg you, do not dismiss me. I can’t draw attention to myself, I can’t—My presence here must remain a reasonably kept secret." He took a few steps forward, and now he was standing close, so close Erik could see his own face reflected in his blue eyes. 

"I could help you," he offered quietly, anger all but forgotten. "Whatever it is, I could help you."

"I’m sorry to say this, but you cannot. No matter how much I wish you could." Mr Xavier looked away and drew a shuddering breath. "You are not incorrect, I am hiding, and the deception – while not fully intentional – was useful to me. You see, I didn’t realise the divisions at first, as my mother always had me dress in bright colours, like she was dressed, like my father was. I only became conscious of the fashion divisions later in life, when I left for school."

"I don’t understand," Erik said, quite unconsciously finding Mr Xavier’s hand.

"Please don’t ask me…" Mr Xavier leaned forward until his forehead was resting lightly against Erik’s shoulder. "Please don’t. I couldn’t bear to get you involved. Allow me to keep hiding here, for as long as I can. Please."

Erik’s whole body became still at the contact. It had been a while since he’d felt the touch of another person, owing largely to his desire to maintain a respectable household for Anya’s sake. It should be no surprise that even so superficial a contact as the brush of hair against his cheek would inspire excitement, and it did. The affection was more unexpected. Erik found himself stepping back and framing Mr Xavier’s pale face with his hands, forcing their eyes to meet. "I can help you. Tell me what you need, and I will do my utmost to achieve it."

Mr Xavier's mouth parted, but naturally, there was a knock on the door and Azazel’s voice informed them both that dinner was served. Erik made the effort to compliment the cook, but for all he knew he might have been served ash and wood shavings; he could recall neither taste nor texture of his meal. Instead his attention had been fixed on Mr Xavier, who carefully avoided his gaze, and consumed his own portion with as much appetite as he always did.

* * *

They did not return to the subject again. Mr Xavier, to Erik’s moderate surprise, proved to be an expert at stalling and evasion, whenever they found themselves alone. Of course, they hardly ever did find themselves alone; another of Mr Xavier’s many talents, it appeared. Perhaps Erik should be grateful for that; Mr Xavier, being gifted, was far more a suitable match than he had been only a day previously, when Erik thought him human, and he would have been a wonderful father to Anya. What was more important, and of what Erik had no doubt, he must have known Erik’s sentiments. The little Erik knew about mind-gifts coalesced into the firm knowledge that whatever the specifics, the awareness of emotion in others was omnipresent. There was silence on the matter, however, and so Erik soon came to suspect that either his sentiments were not returned (he fancied himself a man of sense, and therefore not easily given to bouts of romance, yet he wholeheartedly doubted that to be true), or Mr Xavier had a reason to discourage his affections. This in turn was troubling. He was a young man, and the most common source of trouble for a young gentleman was a compromised young lady, especially an improper match. Perhaps even a human. Still, Erik doubted. There was far too much kindness in Mr Xavier; if nothing else, the soothing glow of his mind proved it. He was well-born, and in truth it could have been the fear of infamy which had driven him into hiding, but then Erik recalled the terror and despondency with which he'd been confronted, and couldn't bring himself to contemplate the scenario. Mr Xavier was not expecting the matter to be solved by his absence, as progeny would be – the money he possessed would see a young lady offered all the comforts and a substantial dowry – but rather he sought solace from the inevitable future.

There was not much Erik could do, not without information, which Mr Xavier wasn’t volunteering. Instead, Erik waited impatiently for the results of Moira’s investigation and may have sent out a missive containing the urging to do just that. He’d kept it a secret, naturally, and a secret it stayed, at least until Moira returned, some weeks later, with momentous news. Such was the state of her agitation that she dismissed Azazel entirely, having stridden into Thornfield at the hour at which most of its inhabitants had already turned to bed, and made her way into Erik’s bedroom. 

"Have you lost all sense?" he demanded, raising himself on an elbow.

"Mr Xavier is engaged," she said, without as much as a greeting. "His fiancé is his stepbrother, Mr Cain Marko."

Erik discovered that his sense of propriety was easily discarded after all. He threw aside the duvet and sat up in bed, reaching for a robe in the same move. "He’s engaged?" he asked, feeling his heart fall and presumably break, should he dare to chart the fall.

"His name is Charles Francis Xavier, he is gifted, and he is the only son of Brian Xavier, esquire, and Lady Sharon Pembroke. His father died nearly fifteen years ago, and Lady Pembroke remarried not long after that. Kurt Marko was Mr Xavier’s long-time business associate. He had a son from his previous short-lived marriage – the wife died in childbirth – who is Mr Xavier’s senior by a few years. Naturally, the marriage was arranged immediately, at the elder Mr Marko’s behest, to secure the inheritance. In so far as I was able to tell, they have been engaged nearly as long as their parents were married."

"This is all for money, you believe?" Erik asked, tying the robe about his waist.

"The Westchester estate is vast, and Mr Xavier stands to inherit the considerable wealth of his father, as well as Lady Sharon’s own fortune." Moira hesitated. "Lady Sharon had died suddenly less than a year ago, upon which time Mr Marko began the campaign to hasten the marriage, and believe me, it was not subtle. I gather that Mr Xavier managed to impress upon his mother the importance of education, because as long as he was at school he was untouchable, and probably until he turned twenty-one, as is the general tendency for couples of the same sex. Upon Lady Sharon’s death, however, the matter became urgent, as to my knowledge Kurt Marko has a very limited income and was in fact wholly dependent on his wife. This was when your Mr Xavier ran, causing quite the scandal, as he went missing shortly after the funeral."

"Hence the marriage." Erik slowly went for the cabinet where he kept several personal affects: Magda’s scarf, Anya’s first blanket, and a bottle of whiskey, for emergencies. He offered a tumbler to Moira, who downed it without a second thought, before sinking into a chair.

"I’ve met the young Mr Marko," she said darkly. "Surprisingly enough, I have written to you about him. If he has any tender feelings for Mr Xavier, or his mother, he hides them well."

Erik sat down heavily, hiding his head in his hands. "What should I do?" he asked quietly. "I can’t let this happen. Anya loves him so—I can’t let him marry someone uncouth."

"I’d think it obvious," Moira said, gazing into the thick glass in her hand, before fixing Erik with one of her fiercest stares. "You must propose to him immediately."

"Excuse me?"

"Erik, please. You can’t possibly imagine your feelings secret. I would be grossly surprised if your servants didn’t gossip about your infatuation."

"My servants are trained better than that."

"Clearly, you know very little about servants," Moira said, folding the edges of her blood-red shawl about her hands. "Erik – I am your friend, you know this. I would never lead you astray. You love that young man, and I think if he doesn’t love you, he would easily be persuaded to."

"He is engaged. I cannot in good faith propose to a gentleman whom I know to be betrothed to another." 

"Well, he certainly won’t propose."

"It’s indecent!" Moira opened her mouth to continue speaking, but Erik didn’t let her begin. "Why would I do it, anyway, if I know he cannot accept?"

"You don’t know if he won't."

"You tell me his mother is a lady; do you know the scandal it would cause, if he broke off an engagement she arranged for his future? It hasn't even been a year since her death, you said! Do you know what would I, what Anya would face, if our becoming affianced preceded the first anniversary of his mother's death, to say nothing of going against her will?"

"I’m sure it would be terrible," Moira said.

Erik’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t like your tone."

"And no surprise. Let me just say that when it comes to causing scandals here’s one: I know of a gifted gentleman whose human daughter was borne by an equally human mother. What have you to say to that, Mr Lehnsherr?"

"How dare you!"

"How daren’t you?" Moira said, gathering her skirts and rising from Erik’s old leather chair. "There is precious little time to lose. Mr Xavier is sought insistently, and it won’t be long before he is found, seeing that he found employment under his own name. He cares enough about his mother's will to maintain his identity, but not enough to heed it, think on that. He may be able to stall the wedding for some time, but not indefinitely, and I’m sure the bitterest scandal would suit him better than a marriage in which he is an unwilling hostage of his mother’s word.

"I won’t impose on your time anymore; it is late. I must see whether my own home is still standing. Good night, Erik."

She left without another word, closing the door behind her, leaving Erik in a state of unmanageable turmoil.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr Xavier took little precaution when he sought employment, scarcely more than to look into some distance, and even then not too much of a distance, so that he could always find an acceptable reason for pursuing this particular opportunity without garnering the accusations of having ran. Erik was painfully aware of that, now that the situation had been explained and he found himself free to speculate. Could he, in good conscience, propose to Mr Xavier? As far as his own intentions were concerned, absolutely, but there was a small seed of doubt in his mind. The thought of proposing had not risen in his mind until he was made aware of Mr Xavier’s circumstance, in which case it would have been dishonest to offer him marriage.

What if he was rejected? There was hardly a hope there, after all. Mr Xavier was already engaged. Regardless of personal inclinations, to accept would be unthinkable on his part.

Erik entertained himself with such thoughts for a better part of a month, during which Anya made a staggering leap forward in French, and had shown an uncanny ability to identify plants by their smallest parts, as part of Mr Xavier’s botany regime. Erik approved of it, distantly, too preoccupied by his dilemmas to pay attention to anything past the superficial. In truth, he was equally distracted by the way the cold blue of the sky made Mr Xavier’s eyes shine brighter, how easily he hefted Anya onto a horse and the grace with which he mounted his own.

Such imbalance in the world cannot possibly last forever, and Erik should have been prepared for its end. He wasn’t. Worse than that – that afternoon he and Mr Xavier took Anya on a long ride to the lake, amusing themselves with a small fire, kindled on the icy shore, over which they heated chocolate, only returning when their throats began to ache with the effort of speaking in the cold. Erik had Anya ride with him on the way back, close enough to be wrapped in his coat as well, for warmth, and Mr Xavier rode at his side, close enough to maintain a pleasant conversation, which left Erik aching for the intimacy of his library and the crackling fire. He could imagine with ease what it would be like to have Mr Xavier sharing the low couch, the comfort of feeling his cheek against his shoulder, and the vision left him breathless.

Mr Xavier, he discovered in that moment, to his utmost surprise, numbered among the things in his life he couldn't bear to lose and still remain content.

The revelation rendered him speechless, so they rode back to Thornfield in silence, only to find an unfamiliar carriage standing at its door. Erik saw Mr Xavier grow pale, though no word left his mouth, not even when they were greeted at the door by Azazel.

"Mr Lehnsherr, Messrs Marko are awaiting in the drawing room. They wish to see Mr Xavier immediately."

"Take care of the horses," Erik told Mr Xavier. "I will see to the guests. Then…"

"Thank you, Mr Lehnsherr," Mr Xavier said, smiling faintly, "but it will not be necessary." He handed the reins of both the horses to Azazel with an apologetic smile, and ascended the stairs, shrugging off the coat as he went.

"Father?" Anya enquired, grasping for Erik’s hand.

"I need you to go to your room, darling," Erik said. "No, never mind. I’ll see you to your room, where you will stay until summoned."

Anya, bless her heart, opened her mouth to complain, but in the end didn’t. She let Erik carry her up the stairs and leave her on her bed without a word, though she couldn’t have missed the raised voices coming from the sitting room, where Erik directed his steps immediately afterwards. 

"Your behaviour is disgraceful," the elder of the visitors was spitting out, directing his ire at Mr Xavier, who stood with his back to the window, with his head bowed and his hands folded behind his back. "I expect you will cease this nonsense immediately."

"It wasn’t even a full year since my mother’s passing," he said in response, "and you dare to harass me?"

"Oh, like it matters," said the other man, whom Erik presumed to be Mr Cain Marko. "You hardly ever saw her!"

"She was still my mother," Mr Xavier said icily. "I will not make a mockery of her death, and I won’t let you do it either."

"She was my wife!" the elder Mr Marko said. "And it was her wish to see you wedded as soon as possible."

"It was her wish, most of all, to never be seen as anything but appropriate and dignified." Charles folded his hands across his chest in a transparent attempt to keep them from shaking. He still hadn’t looked at Cain Marko, from what Erik could see. "You can’t possibly insist otherwise, unless you’ve been too busy spending her money to get to know her."

"How dare you!" Cain Marko leapt to his feet and grabbed Mr Xavier by the throat. "You insolent little brat," he ground out, about a second before Erik sent a candleholder to wrap around his neck and drag him back several paces.

"The better question here," Erik said, "would be why you find it permissible to storm into my house and assault my employee."

"He is my fiancé, I have the right—" Cain Marko said, drawing breath with difficulty through the tightening loop around his throat. The attack had knocked aside the metallic band wrapped around the back of his head, and attached loosely to his ears, so that his hair was in disarray and the band was in danger of falling. 

"You have no rights in my house. Either you will depart peacefully, or I will have you thrown out." Erik rarely found the opportunity to sneer, though he felt this was a natural inclination of his, for his regard to people he met, but both these men inspired nothing but scorn, even if they were affiliated with Mr Xavier.

Meanwhile, Mr Xavier, the root and cause of the excitement, was staring at his fallen fiancé with a curious expression in his blue eyes.

"Don’t think for a moment the matter is over," the elder Mr Marko said to him. "You will be wed, I promise you, before springtime." He turned to Erik, next. "Regardless of his obligations to you, this is a family matter, and I am his stepfather. He will obey me."

Erik bit his tongue, for at least the bare bones were true – Mr Xavier was obliged to kowtow to his stepfather, and there was nothing Erik could do. He listened, quite powerless, as Mr Marko loudly made his wishes known and Mr Xavier listened with his head bowed. He was to return to Westchester within the week, after which the wedding preparations would begin and, shortly after the anniversary of Lady Sharon’s death, which fell a month from now, he would be wed to Cain Marko.

Mr Xavier said very little as his stepfather and fiancé departed. Instead he stared after them with a faraway expression in his eyes, closed-off and solemn.

"Mr Xavier," Erik began, throwing propriety to the wind, "I understand it’s customary to offer congratulations, but I’m afraid condolences would be in order."

"Thank you," the man said, looking up at Erik as though he was expecting a particular set of words. "I appreciate the strength of your feelings."

"If I may offer any assistance…"

"I doubt there is much you could do," Mr Xavier said smiling with only the corners of his mouth. "I doubt there is a solicitor in the world who could rival the Lady Frost, and she’s been the one to chart the nuptial agreement."

"Mr Xavier…"

"I would like to say my goodbyes, if that’s all right with you. I have enjoyed my stay at Thornfield. I hate to leave."

Erik echoed the sentiment to its roots. Nonetheless, Mr Xavier left Thornfield early the next morning, leaving behind a heartfelt letter expressing his goodbyes and his sincere admiration for the estate and its master. "There is no place on Earth," he wrote, "in which I have felt more welcome than at your home, Mr Lehnsherr. I thank you for that, from the bottom of my heart."

There was a second letter, addressed to Anya, which she greeted with equally measured joy (this being the first item of correspondence addressed to her personally) and despair, upon being informed that Mr Xavier will not be returning to their home again.

"But why?" she asked over and over again, seemingly indifferent to the fact that Erik couldn’t bear to revisit the matter in his own mind. "Father… Why?"

"Mr Xavier is getting married, darling," he said patiently, though the mere thought caused his teeth to ache. "He will have many new duties to attend to, with his own home and his own husband."

"Well, why can’t he marry you? Then you could take care of the house and Mr Xavier could continue to teach me." Anya sat on the footrest by the chair, so that she could rest her auburn head against his knee. "You could get married, and we would be very happy."

"Yes, darling," Erik told her in a voice too soft to waver, stroking her hair. "We would be."

* * *

A month had passed without a word of news. Erik considered it a blessing and sought no information himself, regardless of Moira's urging. What was it that Shakespeare wrote, "if he be married…?" Hardly advice he would ever presume to follow, and in truth he'd always considered Julius a childish buffoon and Romola a mindless nitwit with a fiery temper, to match her gift, but he knew he wouldn’t take it well. He devoted himself instead to managing his estate and finding a suitable tutor for Anya, who'd coped thus far with the books and lessons Mr Xavier left behind, with some input from Moira, but who was nearing the end of what she could reasonably procure for herself. Erik, therefore, spent considerable amounts of time brushing up on his Latin, so he could at least offer guidance, until a replacement tutor was found.

He was deeply engrossed in letters and composing a request for recommendations, when his attention was commanded with a respectful, "Mr Lehnsherr." 

Erik looked up from his papers, finding Azazel at the door. "Yes?"

"Mr Xavier is here to see you."

Erik sat up straight. "Excuse me?"

"Mr Xavier—"

"Never mind, I heard you quite clearly – show him in at once."

Azazel disappeared and moments later the footsteps outside his door alerted Erik to the presence of a visitor. He smoothed the hair on his head and cast a furtive glance into the mirror, to make sure his appearance wasn’t too despondent. Luckily, there was nothing that couldn’t be attributed to an afternoon at home, when one wasn’t expecting any guests, especially such guests.

Mr Xavier, in comparison, looked to be expertly put together. The cravat around his neck was knotted to perfection, the sleek jacket accentuated his figure and his eyes were bright as they ever were.

"Mr Xavier," Erik said, rising from his seat and dismissing Azazel simultaneously. "Welcome back. To Thornfield, I mean. How was your journey?"

"Speedy." Mr Xavier sat down, folding into the chair with an air of someone who’d been on the road for a long time and found the seats in the coach lacking. "I apologise, I tried to make the most of the time, but sleep eluded me."

"May I offer you some refreshment? Tea or whiskey, perhaps, unless you’re hungry – the supper will be served in an hour, but I’m sure something could be arranged."

"Thank you, I’m not hungry. I’d have a whiskey, if you would be so kind."

It wasn’t often that Erik found himself short of words, with his thoughts in such turmoil he was unable to form even the most simple of sentences that wasn’t trained into him as the future heir to the Lehnsherr fortune – those he could call to serve at will, all hours of night and day, in any state. In this particular case, the sight of Mr Xavier’s youthful face and the sleepless nights, whiled away with a bottle at hand, took their toll. In these circumstances he could be excused when the turmoil yielded a single sentence Erik uttered before he could think about it: "Are you married, Mr Xavier?" Erik, who’d been in the process of turning with the two tumblers in his hands, froze, horrified at the faux pas he’d just committed, and found himself face to face with Mr Xavier’s gentle amusement. 

"Not yet," he said softly, lending the words no weight, no extra meaning. "I hope to be wed soon, as much as any man can hope for matrimony."

Erik nodded, gazing instead into the amber shadows cast by his whiskey. The memory of Moira’s late night visit was strong even now, urging him in no uncertain terms to cease the charade and propose, to seize this one last chance to spare Mr Xavier from a loveless marriage, or worse, and himself from a life free of Mr Xavier. The wedding preparations would be advanced, Erik thought. Even if the affair was kept private, the wedding of an heir to a great fortune was no small matter, and the society would insist on witnessing the happy occasion.

"Mr Lehnsherr." 

Erik raised his head and found himself transfixed by Mr Xavier, who was gazing into his eyes with the utmost serenity and confidence Erik found himself lacking in that very moment. Furthermore, there was no despondency there, but something warm and bright, something which made him breathless.

"I wish for you to propose marriage to me, immediately," Mr Xavier said.

"Pardon?"

"Mr Lehnsherr, I’ll be frank with you: should we announce our engagement, no doubt we will find ourselves at the very centre of a scandal. My escape from Westchester in the past year, my mother’s death; everything would contribute to us being cast out of society for as long as people manage to ignore the money between us, which I suspect wouldn't be long at all. But I tell you now, if we were both impoverished, none of it would matter to me. If I could be assured I had your heart I would be content to be a pariah.

"You’ve had my sincere admiration from the moment I first laid eyes on you, and my heart has not changed since then. You were kind to me, when most people would find me suspect, and you leapt to my defence when you found out I might require defending. Allow me to say now that I have grown to love you, like I expected to love no one in my life, and I come here today in the hopes that my affections are reciprocal.

"If that’s the case, which, forgive me for making the assumption I must make, by virtue of being a mind-reader, then I must ask that you propose to me at your leisure, although tonight would suit me best of all."

How does one respond to such insolence, Erik wondered, made numb by first the overt sentiment, the warmth of which swept through his mind as Mr Xavier spoke, second by the implication and the hope it contained. Such hope, such promise! Even without the faint reverberations of Mr Xavier’s thoughts Erik found himself burning up with the notion of having him by his side, always, of raising Anya together and, in time, maybe other children as well. He didn’t quite realise until this moment, although of course the sentiment was plain, how much he desired that future for himself, how dearly he yearned for it. This and this alone pushed him out of his chair and to one knee before Mr Xavier, whose hand, despite his icy composure, trembled when Erik took it. 

"Mr Xavier, I can sincerely promise never to embarrass myself with poetry in your honour, for which you will thank me, I’m sure. Will you marry me, nonetheless?"

The response, delayed by a heartbeat or two, was a fragile acquiescence, which Mr Xavier then repeated in a stronger voice, letting his forehead rest against Erik’s.

"Why?" Erik asked at long last, secure to ask the questions which robbed him of sleep now that Mr Xavier’s hand was in his, metaphorically as well physically. "Why have you not said a word before—Mr Xavier, you are engaged!"

"Yes," Mr Xavier said with a moist little laugh. "I was, for fourteen years, and now I’m engaged again, to you. It was a strange and frightening month for me, you understand, as a young man free from all obligations."

"How, then?"

"Cain Marko is not gifted," Mr Xavier said quietly. "I swore that it would remain a secret; I should care naught for their fate, yet I find it hard to condemn my own family to infamy, despite the lack of blood between us. I trust you to never breathe a word of this, to anyone living."

"Why should you be concerned," Erik said hotly, though a part of him thought of Magda, and the scandalous union he would have been a part of, but for her flight. "They sought to ruin your life. They should be made to pay."

"I care nothing for them. I owe them little and I don’t care enough to see them suffer. I’m free, that’s all that matters."

"They deceived everyone." Erik raised himself from his knees, and, in the absence of witnesses, pulled Mr Xavier onto the couch, where they could sit side by side. "But how can this be, I saw Mr Marko lift you with one hand."

"Then surely you must imagine my own surprise, when I always assumed his strength was a gift, though not in the sense which makes one gifted. I have told you once that I know the gifted from the humans on sight, but it is not entirely accurate. I sense the presence of minds before I see them, and that is enough for me to know whether an individual is gifted or human. From the moment I met Cain his presence was somewhat obscured in my mind, as though I couldn’t perceive him correctly. I chalked it up to his gift, you see, as it’s not infrequent that a mental gift counteracts the gifts of others, similarly inclined." Mr Xavier pressed a soft kiss to Erik’s temple. "Yet I felt uneasy, as though something was wrong. Then, when they came for me here, you knocked Cain aside and dislodged the band he always wore about his head, a band I only now realise I have never seen him without."

"Are you implying a metal band can create gifts?" Erik asked, scandalised to the utmost degree.

"Not at all! The opposite: the band, or rather the metal it is made of, interferes with the gifts of the mind, like mine. This is how Cain was able to fool me for so long, until you dislodged it whilst protecting my honour. Upon returning to Westchester I demanded for him to take it off, and then my step-father could no longer hide the truth in his own mind. Any engagement between us was immediately forgotten, when he faced the threat of having his charade exposed."

"What will happen to them?" Erik clutched Mr Xavier’s hand, finally secure to ask the question.

"Dissolving an engagement is bound to cause a scandal, regardless of reasons. I sought to minimise the repercussions. I secured a small property for them in the north, where they will be comfortable. My family was rather secretive; I have no doubt that many people, like you once, were under the impression I had no gifts myself, and so I have hopes that the knowledge of Cain's status has not reached far."

"You paid them off, you mean."

"Kurt Marko was married to my mother; the engagement was made in my name by her personally. I had transgressed enough by dissolving it, when my only objection was that I found my prospective husband an unbearable imbecile. Nonetheless, it falls to me to keep Kurt Marko and his son respectable."

"They don’t deserve respectability."

"Don’t they?" Mr Xavier turned his head so that their eyes met. "Any scandal involving my stepfather and stepbrother will reflect poorly on me, and now you. Does that not make you uneasy?"

"No," Erik said, in all honesty.

"Oh, my dear Mr Lensherr," Mr Xavier said playfully, pressing another gentle kiss to Erik’s cheek. "What am I going to do with you?"

* * *

Their wedding was a quiet affair, hastened indecently by the looming threat of the Markos deciding the scandal, misalliance and social rejection would be a small price to pay for the ownership of Westchester, which was still within their reach – the connexion between the Markos and Mr Xavier was such that they had the right to demand that familial ties be strengthened, regardless of the propriety of match. To Erik’s lasting disappointment, he was given no chance to continue what he started with throttling Mr Marko in the sitting room of his own house, simply because, as far as he was informed, both gentlemen took the generous offer Mr Xavier presented them with and had retired to the north, where they led a comfortable, quiet life. He couldn’t say he approved of their conduct (and this was Mr Xavier’s sentiment, not his own, which was far less suited for polite company), but once he was invited to visit Westchester he was forced to admit he saw the reason for the deception.

"Thornfield seems like a humble abode of simple country folk, next to your home," he told his new husband, as they walked through the sumptuous park which surrounded the property. "If I stood to be the master of Westchester, I might have fewer scruples about lying about my own gifts."

"You speak as though this was the centre of the city," Mr Xavier said wryly, nodding at a rabbit, which watched them from a nearby cove, so perfectly unalarmed Erik could suppose it hadn’t had cause to fear hunters. "And of course you are now master of Westchester."

"Am I?" Erik asked in return, with no less wry amusement. "It’s hard to find myself master of anything, when I do nothing but dance as my husband commands."

"Which husband would that be?" Mr Xavier asked playfully, drawing him close by the lapel of his jacket and the cadence of his thoughts simultaneously. Erik, in turn, felt the warm ring around Mr Xavier’s finger, where it rested on his chest. Gold had always felt peculiar to his senses, and this particular gold was the strangest, and most welcome, one of all, particularly at the proximity. "I have yet to persuade you to a dance." This was an unfortunate truth – their wedding, although by all accounts a joyous occasion, was spoiled by Anya suddenly taking ill with fever, which didn’t relent for three whole days, and when it finally did, the girl was left ailing. Erik had arranged for an extended stay in Bath immediately, where he and Mr Xavier would accompany her, as they were due a honeymoon and neither of the estates required urgent supervision. In fact, Mr Xavier made up his mind to let Westchester and left the matter to his solicitor, claiming, rather unfairly, that he felt Thornfield would ever be more of a home to him than Westchester ever was, and any heirlooms he couldn’t bear to part with could be moved. This was the primary reason for their short stay at the mansion in which Mr Xavier grew up. Erik, despite the obligatory awe at the structure and wealth, found himself unimpressed. It was a cold house, one that even a flock of merry children wouldn’t be able to brighten, and Mr Xavier was an only child, one blessed with the power to read minds.

"I was lonely," Mr Xavier said quietly. Erik knew his mental touch well enough by now to realise he’d heard the thought and was responding to it. "I read countless books to make up for it, but the silence was deafening at times. We had few servants, so for the most part I was alone." He leaned his head against Erik’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

"Thornfield isn’t that much smaller," Erik said, feeding the exaggeration with the ancestral pride in his home. "There may be days when you see no one but me and Anya."

"That, Mr Lehnsherr," Mr Xavier said, pressing himself quite close, far closer than propriety allowed, stealing Erik’s breath entirely, "would be no hardship whatsoever."

THE END.


End file.
